


Possession

by ClownfuckinAround



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Doggy Style, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Mindbreak, Oneshot, Pennywise (IT) Being an Asshole, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Possessive Pennywise (IT), Rough Sex, Self-Indulgent, Tentacle Dick, Vaginal Sex, Yandere Pennywise, and for those of you as fucked up as i am i hope you enjoy, anyways please p l e a s e read this at your own risk its dark af, i guess this is sort of my love letter to that post, similar premise but it goes way further and ends waaaaay more horribly, this is based off an old hc list from daddywiseideas btw, this is kind of the darker counterpart to consequences, this is now officially my longest oneshot, this one kinda got away from me ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClownfuckinAround/pseuds/ClownfuckinAround
Summary: 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬; 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸, 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘳, 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥, 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.Pennywise becomes jealous.
Relationships: Pennywise (IT) & Original Female Character(s), Pennywise (IT)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 214





	Possession

It had all started with a whisper. Four seemingly innocuous words, a perfectly reasonable inquiry which you had found presumptuous but ultimately harmless at the time. You hadn’t sought the attention, you hadn’t asked for it. Lord knows you were hardly dressed for it, with your hair in a ratty, unkempt ponytail atop your head, cheap department store leggings on and a baggy hoodie cloaking the curves of your form, but it had come anyway despite your lack of encouragement. It didn’t occur to you at the time that he might be watching, that he might have caught a glimpse of your little exchange, and you had almost forgotten it until midway through the morning.

You were killing time by your window, anxiously trying to look busy in case some nosy higher up came in with an agenda to fulfill. The festival wouldn’t start for another two hours yet, and beyond stocking your station there really wasn’t much to keep you occupied, the bulk of early morning responsibilities mostly falling on the shoulders of the managers and cooks. You honestly had to wonder why your scheduled arrival time was so early in the day considering your patent lack of obligations but you knew better than to question it, knowing full well that you were simply the low man on the totem pole here, an inconsequential worker bee in this system of operations. You didn’t particularly bemoan your status, and this job wasn’t going to last forever anyway, so you simply held your tongue and continued on.

The kitchen had different factions in which certain responsibilities were held. You were a food prep worker; you took orders from the window, you threw food in a boat, you shoved it through the other side for the cashiers to ferry over to waiting customers. Lather, rinse, repeat. The cooks prepared the food itself, spending the days slaving away in the close proximity of hot ovens and volatile, spitting fryer oil. Then there were the runners, who brought ice to your soda machines and assumed a small variety of janitorial duties like wiping down the countertops and sweeping errant food off the floors. The one in question who had sought your attention was one of this ilk, a tall, awkward, quiet boy who hung around the crowds of chatting coworkers with nothing much to really offer to the budding conversations. You’d seen him around in the days previous but hadn’t really thought much of him; you were far too busy to pay much attention to little else but your duties anyway. That’s why you found yourself the slightest bit disarmed when he kept approaching you; kept making bungled attempts at conversation that would always inevitably fall flat after about a sentence or two.

You tried to be nice. Though you were far from any kind of position to accept attention from anyone besides the one you promised yourself to, you didn’t want to brush him off, didn’t want to be rude. You were the furthest thing from the confrontational type, and you didn’t want to make a fuss if avoiding it was at all possible. Despite this, you did your best to make it clear that you weren’t interested in the form of your sparse responses and apparent disinterest. Then he had gone for broke and asked the question.

“...You got a man?” He whispered, so as not to attract the attention of anyone else nearby.

You were caught off guard by how forward he was. It made you the slightest bit uncomfortable, so you answered him as honestly as you could without divulging too many details.

“No,” You said. “And I’m not looking for one.”  
  


It was true. Your situation in that regard was… A bit complicated. It had been no secret to you that your hometown of Derry, Maine was a bit peculiar in comparison to other neighboring residences. It had a pattern of rapid disappearances, disappearances separated by gaps of several years which the citizens mostly regarded with ignorance at best and outright indifference at worst. These gaps happened to correspond with the existence of a certain creature of hushed local legend, one whom you’d had the dubious luck of stumbling across one day while you meandered curiously about the outskirts of the town. To tell the truth, you’d been searching for flowers that day; you’d gotten it into your head that there were sunflowers in bloom in the field across the way from that old house on Neibolt street; you could faintly remember the petals of the flowers all blending together in a gorgeous swaying sea of gold as you passed the house one day errand-bound on your way out of town. So you’d gone in search of them and instead found something entirely different; a horrid monster who’d chosen you in the end as his fascination, a plaything. A possession.

You’d grown accustomed to your situation with time, had adapted for the purpose of survival, knowing full well that refusing him might just mean your death. Admittedly, however, with the passage of time you found yourself growing a fondness for him, even craving his attention when he came to you with lewd and conjugal intentions. Pennywise had claimed you a long time ago, in every way he could barring an official marital ceremony (which he had denounced as a silly and frivolous human custom anyway). He demanded your full and unabated loyalty; he forbade you from seeking or receiving the attention of anyone else and even slipped a ring on your finger to mark his conquest, a worn and tarnished silver claddagh he had pilfered from the remains of one of his previous victims. He had even talked of bringing you with him for his long sleep, something he considered a high honor for one of your kind, no doubt a clear indication of his special regard for you. It was the most sincere form of flattery a being of his kind would allow, so you took it without question. 

And that’s why this exchange had made you hesitant. Had even made you a little worried. The possibility of him finding out was a dangerous one, you even feared that you may accidentally let it slip to him during one of his nightly visits, when he came to lavish you with decadent pleasures and use your body for his own selfish gain. Sometimes, not often, he could be sweet with you as well, making sure to interrupt his routine cruelty with interludes of gentility and uncharacteristic benevolence so as to encourage you to let your guard down. And you always fell for it; fell for those wide, blue eyes that stared down into yours, a babbling brook to a rich, mossy underbrush. Then, when he was certain he had you right where he wanted you, those eyes would corrode into mean and sinister, acidic, caustic yellow. All of a sudden his demeanor would change entirely and you would find yourself drenched in fear; he would drink the savory spoils from your body as he pinned you down and took what was his. And yet, at the end of it all, you would have it no other way and that, in a sense, was your greatest weakness to him. You feared that he might use such a tactic to bleed information out of you, and you would be none the wiser until it was far too late to turn back.

You’d sensibly made the assumption that it would go no further than this. A harmless question, if a bit uncomfortable, that you’d taken care of. No fuss, no hassle, no bloodshed. Once he’d appeared to have gotten the gist of your response, he’d quietly made himself scarce and left you to continue what you were doing. You breathe a sigh of relief and retreat back to your window, taking a sip of water and simply counting the minutes until the day would officially start. Once it had, things had admittedly been a little slow. It always was, so you weren’t particularly surprised. Still, you almost wished the rush would hit so you would have something to occupy the time and carry you quickly from the morning into the late afternoon. Not a half hour into the day however, the front-of-house manager sent your cashier to lunch and you’d gone with, an unfortunate answer to what you had been silently hoping for. After all, as anyone well-versed in the travails of minimum wage work would agree, employee breaks tended to pass far quicker than reasonably seemed practical. You couldn’t argue that it was a suitable segue into the fast-paced canter of the day’s schedule, so you decided to cut your losses and enjoy as much of it as you could.

As the minutes ticked by on your break, you ate your employee meal and checked the notifications on your phone. Beyond the odd text, there wasn’t much of interest to attend to so you passed the time instead merely looking out over the scenery, your eyes getting lost in the sky and following the playful wisps of clouds painted like smoky brushstrokes over a canvas of tranquil blue. You almost expected Pennywise to join you at your side as he often did on days like these. He liked to visit at the most inopportune of times, including but not limited to your breaks at work. He enjoyed the way it made you feel uneasy, the way his teasing would fluster you and tense your shoulders, and he would rub that all away with skillful silken fingers and smooth, lilting prose whispered in your ear. He was quite the expert at making you careen back and forth on a pendulum between blissful euphoria and sweat-soaked terror, simply a puppetmaster tweaking the strings on your meek and servile wooden limbs. You almost find yourself getting caught up in the thought of him, his presence pervading your conscience regardless of his lack of physical manifestation and you check the clock, realizing that it's almost time to go back in already. You finish up your food and throw your plate in the trash, tossing a quick curious glance over your shoulder. It really was strange that he hadn’t come to visit you.

When you’d gone back in, things had gotten significantly more hectic since last you were aware. It had seemed like the rush had gotten off to an early start, and now you were thrust back into the chaos with little else to do but move with the flow of the discord. You threw your apron back on as quickly as you could, donning your gloves and hairnet and making your way back to your assigned station. Contending with the demands of the customers wasn’t as unreasonable of a task now as it had been when you first started; the work was so repetitive that it was easy to develop a sort of muscle memory for the process and get a sense for the rhythm of things. Now it was simply a matter of dancing frantically through the stampeding herds of your coworkers hard at work completing orders of their own, avoiding collision and ensuring that the fruits of your labor made it safely outside that wooden window. You had mostly gotten the hang out it by this point, but not even you were immune to the occasional mishap that had you knocking someone’s food onto the ground or slipping and very nearly eating shit right there on the oil-slick concrete floor. It was remarkably humbling work to be sure, and the mortification of courting catastrophe on a weekly basis was a paltry compromise for what you were being paid, but you had to make the admission that it was surely better than nothing. You were rather stubborn and bullheaded by half, and you were determined to see it through to the end regardless, demanding work conditions be damned.

As you were navigating the tumultuous whirlwind of mayhem laid out before you, the worries from before started to melt into nothing, taking a backseat in your mind as the pandemonium took first precedence. You were beginning to get lost in the furious back-and-forth; your legs are in constant motion as you move to get plates assembled as quickly as possible in an attempt to seek ever-elusive respite from the neverending onslaught of orders. The day was in full swing now, and minutes on the clock went from ticking by at a leisurely waltz to a full-frenzied sprint. You were well-poised to knock this calendar page out of the park in no time at all, but then your co-worker, your friend who worked in your station, comes striding over from the other end of the kitchen to rejoin your side. She wears a look of concern on her face, though you don’t register it yet. 

“Hey, you know that soda runner that was talking to you this morning? He kept asking me about you.”

Then, all of a sudden, time stops. You try desperately to keep the pace of the kitchen in capable hands as you continue to take orders, but her words throw you for a loop. You’re dizzy now all of a sudden, and the cadence of everything is thrown off balance. You look up and find him amid the crowd of bustling workers, almost lurking in the back. You can see that he’s looking at you, but when you meet his eyes they dart elsewhere. He walks away again.

“K-kept _asking_ about me?” You’re puzzled. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she says quickly, filling orders of her own. “He came over and kept asking “what’s the deal with your friend” and I knew he was talking about you so I just started avoiding him. Gave me the creeps.”

You feel a wave of nausea wash over you and in that moment you become irrational. 

“Well, if he does it again, tell him to fucking buzz off.” You say angrily. 

Though your composure would suggest otherwise, what you’d felt in that moment was icy fear. It had fallen over you in a wave, coursing through your veins now like bolts of frigid lightning. You’d already told him, you’d already given him an answer to his question. You thought that had been the end of it, but clearly not. Your mind starts racing with a million hypotheticals, and now you’re cramming food in the wrong boats, your hands shaking, sweat of a different kind rolling down your brow now. You start to mull over the possibility of going to your manager, nipping it in the bud before it could go any further but you’re _scared_ ; you’re scared of the embarrassment of having to explain the situation, scared of not being believed; you’re scared of being told you’re making too much out of nothing, and scared that bringing it up would only make things that much worse.

...You’re scared of _him,_ too. 

What would he do, what would he think; if he saw, if he heard any of this? You knew how he could get. You knew what he was like, what he was. He didn’t even react well to you having friends, let alone any kind of romantic prospect or, god forbid, a stalker. You find yourself choking on the thought of him killing you in a fit of jealous rage, of taking your life in a bitter bid to monopolize the last lingering threads of your existence for his own selfish consumption. Your throat is thick with fear and you swallow hard, fighting back the tears that well in your eyes. Your mind tries furiously to rationalize the prospect that Pennywise was simply not with you on this day; perhaps he was feeding, perhaps he was off elsewhere simply caught up in terrorizing the rest of the town. It was not unlike him to subject the populace of Derry to his revolting little games; whispering things, making up stories, conjuring visions to coax out the worst in all of them, encourage them to indulge the base components of their humanity on the weak and the helpless and unsuspecting. As horrible as it was, you found the thought comforting.

_Yes, that must be it,_ you think with a sigh, letting the fear wash away ever so slightly. Pennywise wasn’t here, Pennywise wasn’t watching. If he was, you would have felt him. You would have seen the signs. The festival was clear of any calling cards; not a single red balloon to be seen anywhere within your line of sight the entire day. It was true, you often couldn’t detect the presence of him until it was far too late, but you could predict him much like you could predict a cold from telltale warning signs a day before; like dour, simmering clouds of gray before a thundering storm. He manifested in paranoia, in the gooseflesh on your arms and the prickling feeling on the nape of your neck, and you hadn’t felt that familiar sense of dread today as you’d felt so many times before. That’s why you were content to make the assumption that he must be simply absent, and you would be safe from the consequences of any perceived fraternizing. You hoped more than anything that you weren’t wrong. You didn’t think you’d live to see another day if you were.

The day was winding to a close and you had tried your best to swallow your unease throughout the course of it, narrowly avoiding the pursuit of your stalker every time he came over to dump buckets of ice in the basin of your soda machine by strategically walking to other stations. You also made sure to wear a scowl on your face, doing your best to dissuade him or anyone else from approaching you, your mood slowly devolving into silent dismay over the course of it all as a result of the unfortunate developments that had come to pass. You only wanted to go home and leave this all behind you, put it out of your mind; forget about it during your blissful days off before a return to the strenuous normalcy of your work schedule. When the festival officially marks its end for the day you are relieved beyond measure, and you quickly set to the task of cleaning the kitchen with everyone else so that you may collect your check for the week and make an expeditious retreat to your car. You almost start to wonder about the soda runner, who had been hanging about in the back of the kitchen the entire day stealing glances at you here and there and doing a piss poor job of masking his obvious interest in you. You could feel his eyes trailing on you throughout it all and yet, curiously, you could no longer feel that gross, sickly feeling you had felt when you could sense his stare. Come to think of it, from your last fifteen to the end of the day you couldn’t recall seeing him at all; it was almost as though he’d disappeared. Perhaps he’d gone home for the day, or he’d been called elsewhere to assist with the custodial duties of a different kitchen. Either way you were glad to be free of his presence.

The kitchen was finally clean, so you’d collected your time card and punched out, turning it in to your superiors before receiving your meager restitution and making the leisurely sojourn back to the employee parking lot where you would wait for the traffic to clear and then finally make your way home. You were so eager to step inside the cool air-conditioned comfort of your living room after a hard day’s work, kick off your shoes and rest your aching feet; you think on it with a sense of contentment and relief, knowing the day was over and you could take some time to recuperate at long last. The drive home is your time to forget your worries; you crank your favorite music and sing along passionately, words you’d sung a million times before with such unbridled enthusiasm and fervor blaring in stereo sound within the closed off confines of your car interior. Finally pulling into the driveway, you shut off the car and lock the doors, meandering indolently up the cobbled stone path leading to the entrance of your house. You unlock the front door and open it up; its creaking is multiplied tenfold by the silence of the house. And when you close it shut it behind you, you hear a voice.

“Hello, my sweet.”

You jump with a yelp, turning around. Pennywise is there behind you, dwarfing your frame with his absurd height. You stare up at him, heart pounding.

“O-Oh. Hi, Pennywise. You, uh… You s-scared me.”

He grins a toothy grin, appearing delighted by the prospect. Drool glistens at the corners of his mouth and his bottom lip, dribbling down to pool at the base of his chin.

“Mmmmm, I can tell.” He falls silent, looking at you expectantly to continue the conversation, to indulge whatever he might be playing at. You comply, unsure of what else you can possibly do. 

“Have you been feeding? I… D-didn’t see you at work today.” You hesitate, swallowing. “I uh… I missed you.”

He purrs, circling you like a buzzard ready to take its meal.

“Yes… Yes, pet, and Pennywise missed you too… Been busy, been feeding, Pennywise was very hungry today. But he is satisfied now, and he thought he might pay a visit to his favoritest most _favorite_ morsel for some… _Dessert_ …”

That last word is low, almost sinister. He lets his hand dance up the slope of your shoulder to brush your cheek and you shudder. Humming in thought, he speaks again.

“Yes...But enough about me, hmm?” His voice is back to cordial. “How was your day, pet? Been busy as well, yes? Working hard? Tell Pennywise _everything._ ”

Your brain fights to maintain composure, racing as you keep his stare, doing your best not to falter. It was best to avoid showing weakness as much as possible. 

“O-oh, it was… Fine.” You lie. “A bit boring, more of the same. Nothing really r-remarkable I suppose.”

“Ahhhhh…” He muses. “Nothing exciting, hmm? No stories of annoying little customers to regale Pennywise with? No mishaps, no blunders? He likes to laugh at these things, you know.”

“Oh, well, I… There was one who got bent out of shape over--”

“No new _friends?”_

His voice is different now. Your heart stops, you start to feel the warmth preluding cold sweat on your face. Your stomach roils with a spike of unease and you regard him cautiously out of the corner of your eye.

“I… No, of course not. I know how much you don’t like that sort of thing.”

“Yes, and that is why you’ve been a very, _very_ naughty girl.” His tone is dark.

“W-what do you mean?” You’re starting to get dizzy. You honestly didn’t know why you were continuing this charade in the first place. You knew exactly what he was upset about, you were just coming to terms with the horror that he’d been there all along, just as you’d feared.

“Pennywise heard, he _saw._ Do not play dumb with me, girl, he can tell it from your face.”

He backs you into a corner and a silken hand reaches up to grip your throat. You gasp, pulling at his arm with futile desperation in an attempt to loosen his hold. It's harsh and unyielding and immoveable, and your vision starts to blur as a result of the lack of airflow.

“Naughty, _naughty_ girl. Betraying Pennywise’s trust, allowing the attention of some pathetic, simpering fool, and worse, thinking she can simply _lie_ about it, tell him what he wants to hear.” He growls. His eyes are a vile yellow and you can see now that they’re ringed by crazed, seething red. It terrifies you. 

“It’s--” You cough, choking, sputtering as you try to speak. “It’s n-not like that Penny. _Please._ I _promise_ I didn’t do anything, I didn’t want it. He w-was… M-making me uncomfortable. I was s-scared, I…”

Tears well in your eyes and your sight starts to return as his grip loosens ever so slightly on your windpipe. You can see his face ease into something a little softer.

“I d-didn’t want to make you mad, I was trying so hard to make it clear that… That I w-wasn’t interested.” You continue desperately. “I.. I’m y-yours, Penny, _only_ yours, you know that… _Please…_ ” You’re blubbering now, breaking down into tears as he holds you there. You were so mortified at the thought of dying this way, over something that wasn’t even your fault and you can’t bear to even think about it. The time for feigned stoicism was over now and you find yourself bowing before him in a desperate attempt for mercy, pleading with him, telling him whatever might soothe his furious anger.

“I didn’t want it, I promise… I _promise…_ ”

He’s silent, appearing to regard you with some consideration and thought. Finally, his grip loosens enough for you to gulp back all the air you’d lost, his face now shifting from stony resentment into something more forgiving.

"Yes… Yes…" His voice has become gentle again, and there's no longer that poisonous anger seeping from his words. "Such a good girl… Sweet, _lovely_ girl, remembering who owns her, who she belongs to…" His grip on your throat eases even more, and he pulls you toward him into his chest so he can pet you. One hand is stroking down the curve of your back and the other smoothes your hair almost lovingly. You breathe a hitching sigh of relief and lean into it, eager to submit to his attentions now that you've placated his violent temper. 

"All mine… Yes… Only for Pennywise…" There is contented silence between you and you sniffle thankfully, looking up at him enraptured with misty hazel eyes. You nuzzle his hand when he brings it down to cup the heat of your cheek. The cool silk is comforting.

"Not your fault, my girl, my precious pet…" 

His hands stop moving.

" **It was** **_his_ ** **fault.** "

Suddenly he manhandles you in his arms, twisting you around to throw you to the floor. You gasp and cry out when you hit the hardwood. All of a sudden you're drowning in that fear again, inching away from him as he advances on you, desperately trying to make heads or tails of his endgame. His pace gets quicker and you try to match it, but before you can go any further your head butts into something soft and fleshy behind you. Your hands land in a puddle of something cold but almost sticky. When you recoil in disgust and whip around you loose a mortified shriek, backing away until you meet his boots behind you. He is like a blockade to your attempts of escape, and your hands clamp over your mouth in silent horror.

The soda runner is there, though you hardly recognize him. There's a huge, shredded gash going down the side of his face; one eye is bleeding and gouged, the other empty and vacant. There's a huge bite taken out of his torso, and his arms are missing like the wings pulled off a gnat. They are nowhere to be seen. There's a pool of what looks like ink underneath him in the shadow of the room, burst veins and capillaries twitching from open wounds as he bleeds out like a struck animal in the road. Your eyes fill with tears again as you can hardly believe what you are seeing, and his hands reach down to grip you again, this time by the scruff of your shirt, slowly edging you closer to him again.

"Look, pet… Look carefully, at what happens when something tries to take what is mine…"

You're babbling incoherent inanities into your hands, tears of terrified grief rolling down your cheeks along with beads of sweat until your face is soaked to the bone with your horror and revulsion.

"Stupid _fucking_ child, thinking he could move in on you, _covet_ you, just take what doesn't belong to him… Even when he saw the ring on your lovely finger, what I had given you to dissuade such repulsive behavior in the first place…"

He shoves you forward again, and you fall face-first into the carnage before you, sobbing. Your chin juts against the floor. You bite your tongue and blood pools in your mouth. And then he's caging you from behind, the wisps of his fiery hair tickling at your neck when he leans in to whisper to you.

"Must make an example of him, yes? I had to teach him a lesson, but I don't think he has quite learned yet…"

He tugs savagely at your leggings until they split down the back. You squeal, squirming against him, almost thrashing, trying to buck him away as he pulls them from your shaking legs.

"P-Pennywise! D-don't! _Don't!"_ Your shrieking pleas echo mockingly in the emptiness of the living room.

He rips away your panties and shoves himself up against you, his cock thrashing from within his pantaloons. You start to get slick down there, your body reacting favorably to his rough treatment despite the dissension in your mind.

"Must, pet, _must…_ How else will he know who you belong to? Let's show him, shall we?"

"No!"

There's a sickening rip of fabric and then you can feel it slimy and undulating unnaturally against your folds. It finds its destination, and then it starts to slowly push in…

"No, please! _Please!"_ You bury your head in trembling arms, gritting your teeth, trying desperately to hide from it all. But he has none of it.

He tugs your hair, reining you in as he bottoms out. You scream, and then he starts sawing in and out between your legs until he builds a steady rhythm. His voice invades your mind as he pulls your head back to stare at the savaged corpse before you. 

**_No._ ** **You must watch him, pet. Watch him as I take what is mine. Don't you** **_dare_ ** **look away.**

With a powerful buck of his hips you're pushed forward, the distance between you and the boy's mangled body closing just a little more until your face brushes up against his leg. You gasp, gagging in disgust as you stare up at him with no other choice and Pennywise fills your cunt in another brutal thrust. He’s leaning over you, snarling, growling as he pistons his hips back and forth, working you open on his cock. You sob and dig your nails into the floor, trying your best to simply submit in the hopes that it would be over sooner. You would let him use your body as he had done so many nights before; you would let him rut into you like a savage animal, try your best to ignore the pain as he laughed over your squeals and cries, and then you would let him groom and praise you afterward for having survived his vicious onslaught. 

That was always the worst part of Pennywise’s little play sessions; the aftermath, when it was over and he would lavish you with such loving consideration and tenderness, tenderness he hadn’t shown you minutes earlier when you were squalling red-faced for mercy, your pleas for help falling on the indifferent ears of a town which would always look the other way. You were a martyr, perhaps more so than any of his other victims, as you were damned to endure his torments time and time and time again, never experiencing the relief of death to end your eternal suffering. It was cruel how gentle he was, rocking you to sleep in his arms as he crooned sweet lullabies and vowed to keep you safe despite his earlier contradiction of those same promises. You hated it, and yet you welcomed it, almost craved it. It didn’t matter how he treated you; in the end, you still loved him all the same. You were brainwashed.

But now, in this moment, all you can think about is the excruciating fullness between your legs; the tears beading your eyes at the red hot burning in your scalp, the tresses of your hair being yanked mercilessly in an attempt to keep your eyes rooted on the atrocity in front of you. All you can think of is his imposing figure curling over you, his hair falling out of coif as he becomes more and more unhinged with each thrust, this thing that has claimed you for his own and no one else’s. You can think of nothing but the feeling in your belly, the sweet, blissful pleasure that rises with the friction and rolls over your loins in waves, your body betraying you as you are violated in the worst possible way. And before you know it, before you can control it you’re making noises; you’re moaning and mewling despite yourself, your hips rocking back to take his cock as you are pulled into the irresistible rhythm, the sensual momentum of the relentless back-and-forth. 

Pennywise growls with pleasure at your growing assent, keeping one hand rooted in your hair and the other on the crook of your hip, pushing you closer to the lifeless body in front of you. Leaning forward, his hot carrion breath at the nape of your neck makes you shiver when he whispers in your ear.

“See, pet? Just as I thought… You’re enjoying this… Can’t hide from Pennywise, he knows it, he can _see_ it…”

He smacks your ass and you yelp. His giggles are discordant and they echo over each other. You sob, whimpering as you squeeze your eyes shut. Another deep thrust has you wiggling your hips, squirming as you are hit with another pang of overwhelming pleasure-pain. He tugs harshly at your hair, pulling your head back even further so that his piercing yellow eyes may bore down into yours. You cry out and meet his stare, faltering in fear as much as your current position would allow. He chides you.

“Ah, _ah…_ I can see you, precious… Keep your eyes open and look… Look at him…”

When he releases your head once more you force yourself to meet his demand, letting your miserable, glossy gaze fall on the morbid sight in front of you, the gored remains of the boy who’d made the simple mistake of talking to you, the fatal error of expressing vague interest in pursuing you. Even if his awkward advances had made you uncomfortable, you would never have wished harm on him in a million years, let alone… This. Your conscience is soiled, you are overcome with guilt at his fate; self-hatred roils in your blood, in the core of your being and you cannot stop crying. The tears in your eyes are a boon to your misery in a way, rendering the details of his mangled face blurry and indistinct like a faraway road sign in a downpour of rain.

“Yes… Yesssss…” His voice is deep, its guttural and low. “Such a good girl…” 

A pristine, white-gloved hand rips to reveal black, razored talons and he rakes it down the side of your naked body, reopening old wounds from previous sessions and drawing fresh blood to mingle there with the partially coagulated mass below you. You wail out in anguished pain, pushed further and further to the brink as he hammers away inside of you, trying your best to ignore the burgeoning wave of ecstasy that he draws from your shivering form.

“Yes, girl… Look at him… Look at him and tell me who you belong to.”

He cracks a hand against your ass again and shrieks with hyena laughter when you arch your spine and cry out in pain.

“ _Tell me._ ”

Your lip trembles as you blubber his name, quietly, feebly. Another smack has you straighten yourself in his hold, forcing yourself to repeat it louder. You cannot breathe, your voice is hoarse from crying, but still he finds a way to make you bend to his will.

“P-Pennywise…”

“What’s that, pet? Who? I can’t hear you…”

He rolls his hips forward fast and harsh to knock the wind out of you with another deep thrust, and the smile on his face is sinister and unforgiving as he looks on you from above, struggling to keep up with his assault. Sobbing, tears pooling at your chin, he pushes you forward more and more until you are practically in the boy’s lap, demanding an answer out of you, one he deems satisfactory.

“Who do you belong to?”

“Pennywise!”

“Louder.” Another hard and stinging smack.

Your eyes are red and burning, but you gurgle out as loud as you possibly can, desperately hoping that your efforts will be enough to grant you mercy.

“Pennywise! _Pennywise!_ ”

“Gooooooood. _Good_ girl. You were made for this, made for my cock… Say it, pet.”

As you are pushed up into the boy’s mutilated torso you gag with disgust when your fingers brush up against bone and exposed, bloody flesh. The cotton of his shirt is saturated with blood that’s sticky and no longer warm. Your pleasure is getting harder and harder to ignore and you hang on to that final thread as best you can, wanting so desperately not to give him the satisfaction of making you cum during this horrific display of dominance but finding that it was getting increasingly harder to deny all the same. You’re so broken and exhausted that keeping up with his demands is a taxation on your bruised and battered mind that you can hardly stand. You’re dizzy now as you fight to obey him and defy him all in the same breath.

“I w-w… I w-was… Made to take your cock…” You sob. 

“Hmm?” His pace doesn’t let up to accomodate you, it's as fast and unyielding as ever. It might have even gotten harder and more forceful.

“I was- I was made for your c-cock. I was made for you... _Please…_ ” You’re begging now. It's all too much and you are reduced to a weeping, begging mess, snot dripping from your nose as you plead desperately for an end to this torture. Smug satisfaction plays on his face as he maintains his rolling gait, utterly delighting in how much he’s broken you. A hand snakes into the space between your bodies to rub at your clit now; you’re stricken with panic, energy returning to you as you try to squirm away from his ministrations. Your mind screams at you. You can’t, you _can’t,_ not like this…!

“P-please… Puh-please don’t!”

“Mmmm, beg me more, little thing. _Beg._ ” His gloved finger swirls over your sensitive button.

You try your best to dissuade him, bucking frantically away from his touch but you can never escape it. And it's coming, you can’t avoid it, no matter how much you try. It's coming. 

“P-Pennywise please! P-Pennywise!” You’ve become inconsolable. You could take this, all of this, but you couldn’t take that final nudge, that last, irreversible push over the edge. If you came… To _this_ , you could never forgive yourself. But you can’t stop it, you can’t…

Your cunt is so wet that you can hear the lewd, squelching sounds of your bodies coming together with each thrust. His glove is slick with your juices as he works to bring you to the point of ruin, not stopping for even a second to assuage your inner turmoil, viciously rutting in and out of you all the while to satisfy his own selfish pleasure.

“You will cum, you _will…_ This is what you were made for.”

He whispers in your ear, and his words seep into your brain like poison.

**You belong to me.**

It hits you and you squeal helplessly, your pleasure falling over you like a wave crashing on sandy shores. Your greedy cunt tightens reflexively around his shaft and you can feel him follow suit with a cacophonous roar, gripping you tight, squeezing the wind out of you as he unhinges his jaw with a lunge and bites the head of the boy clean off. Blood rains in a downpour over your screaming face as you cum, your mind rendered blank when his warmth fills, pools inside of you. All you can feel in that moment is that carnal euphoria, consuming your every thought as you ride the high of your orgasm. It takes you over unspeakably steep cliffs, pitching you through a technicolor sky of sensation and then you crash hard into reality once more, the harsh truths of what has been done seeping back into your body until all you can do is cower in shame. He seems to sense your dismay and your heartbreak, and when he adjusts himself back into a seated position he takes you with him, cradling you there in his arms as you weep bitterly into his chest. All of a sudden that monster is gone, and he plays the part of the gentle, considerate clown once more.

“Shhh… Shhhhhh… It’s okay, little love. It's over. Pennywise is here. _Shhhhhhhhh…_ ”

You can’t even fathom pushing him away, trying to get away from him. You know it would surely mean death but… Some part of you craved the comfort of his embrace, the solace he offers to you in your most desperate time of need. 

“You did so well… You were so _good…_ Good, sweet, _precious_ girl…”

He starts to lick a trail up the side of your face, grooming you, cleaning the blood from your cheek with a slimy and sinuous tongue. The two of you are bathed in red but you cannot summon the energy to be disgusted anymore, you simply submit to his attentions and let all lingering thoughts of resistance depart from your mind. You’re still sniffling and whimpering into the sticky silk, shivering like a rain-soaked child as you let him clean you. And as his mouth wanders closer and closer to yours, he takes advantage of the position and tilts your head back to kiss you, his tongue re-introducing the sickeningly metallic taste of rust to your palate. He growls into your mouth and despite it all you return the gesture, finding the hypnotic pull of his comfort too much to resist anymore. The aftermath of your orgasm has left you tingling, numb, and most of all, drunk with yearning for him. 

He’s all you want and need in this moment, the one to soothe and console you in your grief. It didn’t matter that he was the cause of it all; you would simply forget it in time as you always did, a simple side effect of his ownership of you. Yes, in time, sure as rolling tides would wash away vulnerable sandcastles on the shore, your memory would degrade until these incidents were nothing but a meek remembrance, a nightmare you could only vaguely recall upon waking. So long as you were within his hold, he could do what he pleased, and you would be nothing but a marionette with stringed limbs weak to the manipulations of his expert hands. His words would be a soothing balm to all your woes, his touch the only thing capable of bringing you true relief and healing. You would forget, you would forgive, you would submit to him forever and always, because you had no other choice.

You belonged to him. You were his possession, and nothing would ever change that.


End file.
